(Intro Reflection)

A fellow poet and close observer of my art messaged me once after reading one of my sensual pieces:

“The way you love is such a turn-on. But feeling these lines? To feel without being a lover, that’s the real high.”

That line stuck with me.

Yes, I’m the passionately obsessive kind. The one who flirts with words and doesn’t flirt with emotions, but devours them whole.

I don’t just fall in love. I drown in it. Most of you already know this about me through my writing.

What I create isn’t just art—it’s a confession.

So here you go….This isn’t just prose or a poem. It’s a reflection of how I love, of who I am.

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My love is like an 18th-century poet. Ink-stained, unrestrained.

The kind of love that sinks deep and leaves marks, like ink beneath skin. Permanent. Indelible.

When I give myself, it’s all or nothing. Just devotion. Desire. Obsession.

Entirely incapable of feeling in halves. No maybe’s. No in-betweens.

Is it a blessing or a curse in disguise?

The truth is, I don’t feel this way—not for just anyone. That kind of feeling doesn’t come easily. And it sure as hell doesn’t happen often.

And when it does,
It floods through me, too much, too fast, like heat that aches more than it soothes.

Some call it madness.
Others say it’s just a mindset.
Some say it might be trauma,
a shadow I’m blind to outrun.

And if I don’t,
You’d swear I’ve never known warmth or pleasure at all.

But a few?
They find me fascinating.
A mystery too tangled to unravel.
Too overwhelming to hold.
A craving they ache to touch.

But really—it’s just me.
Maybe luck never looked my way twice.

They’ve asked me more times than I can count,

Why don’t you give in to the men who’ve always wanted you?
Why not let yourself be touched, adored, desired—just like you crave, just like you write?
Why not say yes to the hands, even if your heart stays silent?
Why not fake the fire, just to feel a little heat?

That was never the question.
Here’s the truth: being wanted was never the problem.

I’ve been desired.
Adored all along.
Lusted after.
Praised like a muse. Undressed like a fantasy.

But do I want them?

Should I give in to a body just because mine is craving?
Settle for casual flings, hollow gestures, a little bang-bang to fill the silence—just to hear a moan that doesn’t reach my soul?

When there’s no emotion involved,
When our intellects aren’t tethered,
I become the most lifeless woman you’ll ever meet around a man.

I am blunt as a dull knife—present, but powerless, dragging but never piercing.

Nothing in me responds.
Nothing wakes.
Dead weight in silk.

This is the truth of it: Passion can’t be faked. You can contain it, but you can’t invent it. You either feel it clawing at your ribs, or you feel nothing at all.

That’s what makes it rare—its honesty, its refusal to perform.
That’s what makes it sacred—its rarity, its integrity.

To spark it? It takes something more primal, beauty with a secret. Mystery.
To hold it? Without being destroyed takes skill. Maturity.

Either way, it leaves behind a kind of art only the rare ones carry without shattering you.

And I,
I carry all that intensity within myself and bleed it here, through poetry.

And when it’s real,
The most delicious art is born.

But only connoisseurs know what they’re tasting.

The rest just see the chaos, never the sacred.

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